


The Holiday

by A_Canceled_Stamp



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Fools in Love, Forbidden Love, God Ships It, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, M/M, Romance, Slow Burn, aziraphale - Freeform, crowley - Freeform, ish, so maybe it isn't that bad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 12:17:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21197540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Canceled_Stamp/pseuds/A_Canceled_Stamp
Summary: “We should go on a holiday.”The loud, slightly slurred words slink past Aziraphale’s lips before he can stop them. They cut through the silence like the crack of a whip, and Crowley starts slightly, almost spilling his wine on his black coat."Sorry, what?"Aziraphale thinks they deserve a holiday. To everyone's surprise, Crowley agrees.





	The Holiday

Aziraphale is sitting on the sofa, dressed in his brown waistcoat, his beige coat folded beside him and with a glass of wine gripped firmly in his hands, resting in his lap. His cheeks have a gentle pink glow to them, and he sits slightly hunched over, and is, by the looks of it, in deep thought.

Opposite him, the demon Crowley is draped over an ancient armchair, his left leg dangling over the armrest, a stemmed glass willed with red wine resting snuggly in the palm of his hand.

It’s been some time since any of them have uttered a word, and during that time the sun has disappeared behind the horizon, Aziraphale’s managed to miracle a fire to life in the fireplace, and it’s started to rain. The muffled sounds from the busy street outside filters in through the walls, and the smattering of raindrops against the window next to Aziraphale has over time increased and morphed into background noise. Apart from this, and the softly crackling fire, Aziraphale’s Bookshop is silent.

The principality is not quite sure why (nor when for that matter) they decided to remain silent, but he can’t say he minds it. And judging by the glazed look in Crowley’s eyes, Aziraphale is not the only being in the vicinity engulfed by their own thoughts.

Aziraphale takes a big sip from his glass and rests his chin on his hand, taking in the sight of the demon.

Crowley’s head is slightly shaved on either side of his head, leaving a curly quiff on the top of his head; a hairstyle the demon insisted he had to try out before it ran out of fashion. He’d even bothered to miracle small, intricate patterns along the undercut, that ran along his neck and curled around his ears. Slightly different from any haircut he’d ever tried before, but definitely not the worst. At least not in Aziraphale’s opinion.

It’s as he observes his friend, watching him yawn loudly, smack his lips and bring his glass to his mouth, that the idea pops into his head.

“We should go on a holiday!”

The loud, slightly slurred words spill out of Aziraphale’s mouth before he can stop them. They cut through the silence like the crack of a whip, and Crowley starts slightly, dangerously close to spilling wine on his coat.

The fire only illuminates a fraction Crowley’s face, leaving most of his features impossible to distinguish in the dark. Even so, his eyes cut through the darkness like glowing embers, and Aziraphale sees how they blink in confusion.

“Sorry, what?”

Aziraphale feels like a deer in the headlights, but (mainly thanks to the courage the alcohol has granted him) shrugs in a manner he hopes is interpreted as nonchalant. “Oh, um, well…I thought it might be nice to…I don’t know, maybe go on a holiday. Someday. Together.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow at him. “Together?” He repeats.

Aziraphale swallows nervously, suddenly feeling too drunk. “I…er, yes. Together. It would be awfully depressing to go on a holiday all alone, now wouldn’t it?” he says with a nervous chuckle.

“I think you’ve had a bit too much to drink, angel”, Crowley says after a moment of silence, nodding at Aziraphale’s glass.

Aziraphale frowns. “Oh, nonsense, dear boy. I’ve had this idea for quite some time now actually. I thought with, uh, preventing the Apocalypse, almost dying and such, a holiday might be precisely what we need. Surely you must have had a similar thought?”

When Crowley’s sole response is to stare at him, Aziraphale feels heat rush to his cheeks. He brings his glass to his lips, only to realize that there is nothing left in it, and quickly grabs the bottle of Pinot Noir from the small, candle-ridden table. Remarkably without spilling any of the wine, he fills his glass up almost to the brim, all the while stuttering;

“Er, I mean, it wouldn’t be anything more than that, really. A way to get away from the awful noise of central London, get a bit of fresh air, maybe even celebrate Halloween. Or Thanksgiving.”

He realizes his mistake when Crowley makes a displeased sound. He puts the bottle down on the table and holds his palm up. “Alright, maybe not Thanksgiving. But perhaps,” he continues, “it might be…nice. To get a break from all…this.”

Crowley shifts in his seat, causing his left leg to slide off the armrest, and his foot hits the floor with a loud bang. He leans forward awkwardly, and it’s the way he almost falls out of the chair that reveals just how drunk he is.

“Let me get this straight”, he begins, blinking heavily, “after 6000 years of dedicated work to the Lord and Saviour you suddenly feel the need to take your vacation time? Is that even a thing? Is that even _allowed_?”

“Well, it’s not as if I’m going to be gone forever”, Aziraphale protests weakly.

“And you want me to come with you _why_?”

Aziraphale feels himself blush even harder than before. He lowers his head and shrugs.

“I don’t know”, he murmurs and gives Crowley a fragile smile. “I just thought it would be…fun.”

A pregnant pause fills the space between them, where Crowley just scowls at him. The fire pops angrily, and golden embers fly into the air.

When either hard-pressed, displeased or annoyed, Crowley sometimes tended to…remove himself from the ongoing situation. This basically meant that he would teleport away without any form of premonition and practically go into hiding, the length of his absents depending on the reason he was hiding. When he found out Freddie Mercury had passed away for example, he wasn’t seen or heard from for at least three months. And when he’d lost at Monopoly to Aziraphale a couple of weeks back, it had taken him nearly two weeks to even bother to pick up the phone when Aziraphale had tried to contact him.

Which is why Aziraphale finds himself holding his breath for what might happen next. Any second now he will either be staring at a vacant armchair, or receive a snarky remark followed by a rejection of Aziraphale’s offer, and they’ll never speak of this incident again.

After a moment or two (which feels like eons to Aziraphale), Crowley shrugs, leans back in his seat and says; “yeah, alright.”

Aziraphale turns to Crowley so fast the room spins. “I—_what_?”

“Well…I could use a holiday, what with preventing the Apocalypse, almost dying and such”, Crowley slurs smugly. He slides down even further down into the armchair and downs the rest of the contents in his glass in one big gulp. “What did you have in mind?”

“Pardon?”

Crowley inhales deeply, stifling a burp. “Holiday. What. Did. You. Have. In. Mind?” he articulates each word exaggeratedly, which, Aziraphale has noted, he usually does when he’s annoyed. It also makes his nose scrunch up in a way Aziraphale would almost dare to describe as endearing. Almost.

“Oh. I mean…I don’t know to be perfectly honest”, Aziraphale says, realizing he hasn’t really thought that far ahead. “Uh, I don’t think I’d be comfortable leaving the country after…you know. After what happened last time.”

He gives Crowley a knowing look, and Crowley visibly shudders.

“Look, to be honest, you know my side wasn’t behind that, it was those twelve idiots’ stupid idea and everyone who voted who really…did some miscalculations. I don’t…I don’t think you being here would’ve made much difference.”

“Well, that’s…very kind of you to say”, Aziraphale says gently. “I can’t help but feel guilty about it though.”

Crowley grumbles something inaudible just as a thought crosses Aziraphale’s mind.

“Hang on. Perhaps…” he begins thoughtfully, and then a smile spreads over his lips, “oh, yes, I know this delightful woman who owns a…oh what do you call it, airbib…air-d-and—"

“Airbnb?” Crowley offers disgruntledly.

Aziraphale snaps his fingers and points at Crowley. “Yes, that’s the one! She owns an Air-b-and-b in a lovely village just an hour or so south of London. Lovely place, I hear the local pubs are splendid.” He pauses, glancing warily at Crowley. “I could perhaps pull some strings and make it possible to leave as early as tomorrow. Only if it suits you of course.”

The corner of Crowley’s mouth twitches slightly as he tilts his head back slightly. “Well if we’re leaving tomorrow, I suppose I better go home and pack, eh?”

Aziraphale finds it impossible to stop the brilliant smile from spreading across his face. “Oh, wonderful. When do we leave? Shall we say sometime before noon?”

Crowley gives a nod of approval, puts his empty glass on the table, and pushes himself to his feet, stumbles, but manages to regain his balance. “If it’s a holiday we’re going on then I’m bringing my joggers.”

Aziraphale grimaces. “Please don’t.”

Crowley snorts and bends down to pick up his sunglasses. “Give me a call when you’re ready. I’ll pick you up with the Bentley.”

“Will do.”

As Crowley moves to put on his glasses, he pauses, his eyes trained on Aziraphale. An unrecognizable emotion is suddenly visible in Crowley’s eyes, an emotion Aziraphale has never witnessed before, and his breath hitches involuntarily. He opens his mouth to say something, but Crowley quickly slides his glasses on, turns around, and walks out the room.

“_Ciao_!” he calls, waving goodbye over his shoulder before he vanishes behind a bookshelf.

There’s the sharp ring of the doorbell followed by a loud thud as the door is opened and immediately closed, and Aziraphale is once again alone. He sits there, still as a statue, and stares unblinkingly into the flames, trying desperately to wrap his head around what just transpired. His thoughts swirl around in his head like clothes in a washing machine (now that Anathema has taught him how washing machines work, he finds they work as excellent metaphors), and when he finally shakes himself out of his stupor the fire has turned into weakly glowing embers. 

He decides to sober up and has to quickly snatch up a wine bottle up that was lying horizontally on the floor to avoid any spillage (that demon really liked to toe the line) as the bottles start to refill themselves. Then, with his bloodstream free from alcohol and a fruity taste on his tongue, he spends almost ten minutes with the telephone pressed to his ear, his hand hovering over the rotary dial, and his thoughts spiralling out of control.

What is he thinking? Going on a holiday? With a demon? A _demon_, for pity’s sake! He may have toed the line during the Armageddon, but would not living with a demon surely be one step too far?

He starts dialling Crowley’s home number, pulling, rotating and releasing the dial with a trembling finger.

Although, the other part of Aziraphale considers (the part that mostly wins every debate regarding Crowley), that demon has saved his life more than a handful of times. And, like he’s mentioned before, a demon who saves the life of an Angel (on multiple occasions) cannot be entirely void of goodness, can they?

Aziraphale replaces the receiver halfway through Crowley’s home number and sighs deeply.

There is also no denying there being a change in their relationship after the whole Armageddon fiasco. If Aziraphale’s being perfectly honest, he’s finding it to be more and more easy to enjoy Crowley’s company with every passing day. Now that they don’t fully belong to anything or anyone anymore, it seems they need each other now more than ever.

And they really do deserve a vacation of some sort, even if it’s only for a short period of time.

The principality takes a deep, grounding breath, dials, and, after replacing the receiver twice in a panic, successfully books the small cottage just outside Shere village for seven nights. Then he grabs a dusty book from a bookshelf, sits down in the ancient armchair, relights the fire with a nod of his head, and starts reading.

**Author's Note:**

> First Good Omens fic, hopelly it wasn't too OC... Fun fact I wrote like 3/4 of this three months ago while I was drunk off my ass, and only just rediscovered it last weekend. It was like checking your pockets and finding money you didn't know you had.
> 
> But anyway I’m not sure when I will be able to post an update since Uni is a thing. I also SUCK at writing regularly. But I really enjoyed writing this, and look forward to posting chapter two soon! 😊
> 
> Oh yeah, English isn't my native language so if you find any errors or shit like that plz tell me so that I can correct it!


End file.
